


Five Times Racetrack Higgins Visited Spot Conlon, and One Time Spot Visited Him

by aspiringenjolras



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Five Times Plus One, M/M, aka Race bothers spot enough that the brat prince of brooklyn gives up on trying to ignore him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 06:26:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2611715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aspiringenjolras/pseuds/aspiringenjolras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Race has more guts than any other Manhattan Newsie. It's exactly what it sounds like. Not Sprace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

One

If you were to say that no one entered Brooklyn who wasn’t Brooklyn, you’d be right. There weren’t any rules against it, of course, at least none that anyone knew. But there was an unspoken agreement that anywhere across the bridge was off limits. Brooklyn was Spot Conlon’s turf, for as long as anyone could remember, and no one was interested in challenging that. In fact, no one could particularly recall when the boy, who was 14, but looked not a day over 10, had risen to power, or how he had managed it. And yet no one had to. It was as if one day he had just appeared.

No newsie with a shred of dignity about him would admit to being afraid of Spot Conlon, but there was no room for argument about it. You could say you weren’t afraid, but if you wouldn’t waltz into Brooklyn with your head held high, then you were better than anyone else. It was often made into a game by the younger boys, a bet to see who would dare cross the bridge. For some of the kids, even the thought of facing the feared Spot Conlon was enough to send them running. The ones who did agree to take the dare never made it either. They were always stopped by the older boys before they could make it. The older boys knew first-hand how bad of an idea going to Brooklyn was.

The only boy who had ever successfully made it across the bridge on a dare was scrawny Racetrack Higgins. He was only nine at the time, and the only reason he got there at all was because he slipped out when everyone else was sleeping. No one was expecting it, because no one would ever want to go to Brooklyn at night. There were rumors that Spot Conlon had boy-eating monsters who only came out in the dark stationed at the end of the bridge. Everyone was inclined to believe these stories, except Racetrack. He was, after all, the one who started them. 

Racetrack would’ve been surprised at the lack of defense stationed around the newsboy lodge if he hadn’t known better. These boys were just kids, same as Manhattan, and while he didn’t really understand what was so damn scary about Spot Conlon, he was determined to find out. Uncertain of what to do next, Race stared at door and pulled a pin from his pocket. If he could pick the lock on the door and sneak inside, that would surely get him the glory every newsie craved. 

He was startled from his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder. It wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t a rough gesture either. In fact, it was a tap. One finger, tapping impatiently. Racetrack spun around. 

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Although he had never met him, Racetrack knew what Spot Conlon looked liked. Or thought he knew. The boy in front of him looked nothing like he had imagined, and yet he could tell that he was face to face with the infamous Brooklyn leader. Who else could it be? The boy may have been standing in his boxers and a nightshirt, but the haughty expression and cold eyed stare could only belong to one person.

Spot was expecting him to be scared, Racetrack figured. That was what he wanted, for the other boy to be so frightened that he would run off back to Manhattan in the dead of night. But Racetrack wasn’t scared of Spot Conlon. 

“Paying you a visit,” he replied arrogantly. If Spot was surprised he didn’t show it. 

“Someone dare you?”

“No, I came of my own accord,” which wasn’t entirely the truth, but there was no fun in that. Spot Conlon only nodded. He would’ve appeared lost in thought if his gaze wasn’t trained expertly on Racetrack. 

“You’d best be heading home then,” he said finally. “These streets are not good to be walking on your own. And besides, it’ll be morning soon and most of my boys are less forgiving than I when it comes to giving someone a good soaking.” Racetrack’s expression did not change. If this was supposed to frighten him it wasn’t working. All the same, he nodded.

“Right, well. I’ll guess I’ll be seeing you around, Spot Conlon,” Racetrack said as he turned his back on the other boy, and started walking back the way he came. He didn’t have to look back over his shoulder to know that the look on Spot’s face was one of confusion. “In fact, I know I will.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I had exams to get through and that was crazy, but its over now, thank goodness, so I should be able to get back on a regular writing schedule. I'm going to try to post one every Wednesday until I finish.
> 
> Also, I made an edit to Spot's age in the last chapter. I originally had him at 17 in that chapter, but I changed that to 14. In this chapter, two years later, he's sixteen.

Two

It was a long time before Racetrack Higgins returned to Brooklyn. This time, he was off to the Sheepshead Races to sell his papes, and the only way to get there was through Brooklyn. Despite what the others might’ve said about him, Racetrack was not one to go looking for trouble. Trouble usually found him and he just never complained. 

Racetrack had heard long ago about how the races were a great place to sell papes. He never shut up about them, which is why the other boys had given him his name. However, it wasn't until he turned eleven that he actually went. 

He had taken precautions of course- stolen street maps of Brooklyn so he wouldn't get lost, and carefully planned out his route ahead of time so he wouldn't run into any of the Brooklyn newsies.

But no one avoids Spot Conlon. Racetrack had barely set foot on the other side of the bridge when he was surrounded by five older boys.

“What are you doing here, punk?”, one asked. Racetrack scowled.

“Going to Sheepshead to sell my papes. The races ain't Brooklyn territory. They’s no one’s territory, and I has every right to sell there, as do you!” He had prepared this speech beforehand. Just in case.

The older boy grit his teeth, glancing out of the corner of his eye at the others. “Yeah,” he said finally, “But you's walking through Brooklyn territory to get there, and no one does that without Spot Conlon knowing. Spot knows everything that happens here.”

A fleeting expression of frustration crossed Racetrack’s face- this was not how he had intended to spend his day. But it was gone in an instant and he flashed them a bold grin. “Then I’ll inform him myself”. 

Another exchange of glances. “Fine,” the boy said. “Come with us.”  
***  
Racetrack was expecting them to go to the lodging house. Why, he wasn’t sure- everyone should be out selling papes. He supposed that maybe Spot Conlon just sat upon a throne all day or something, but of course that was ridiculous. He was just a boy like the rest of them- yes, a boy with a lot of power, but really he was a scrawny kid who probably would get beat up a lot in Manhattan. 

So when Racetrack met Spot for the second time, it was down at the pier. The Brooklyn leader was standing alone at the end, staring out over the water. As they approached, he spoke. “Racetrack Higgins. It’s been a long time”. 

“What?” Racetrack spluttered. “How did you even know it was me?” Spot turned around to look at him. 

“I was informed.”

“I crossed the bridge about five minutes ago!”

Spot smiled. “News travels fast here. Now- I’m guessing you was off to Sheepshead?” Racetrack, still stunned, only nodded. “I have boys there right now. Why do you think I’m going to let you pass through Brooklyn territory so you can potentially steal business from us?” 

“Well I ain't going to make it there in time anyway if you keep me here much longer,” Racetrack pointed out. He instantly regretted it as Spot raised an eyebrow, surprised. But then the boy burst out laughing, a wide smile on his face.

“You make a good point, kid. Go ahead and go- on one condition”. Racetrack blinked, surprised.

“Um… what?” he asked, crossing his arms.

“Come back and visit sometime- and don’t wait another two years.”


	3. Chapter 3

Three

This time, it was not long before Racetrack returned to Brooklyn. On his morning trip to Sheepshead, he passed through unnoticed- or if we was noticed, no one said anything. But when he had sold his 100 papes, he took his time heading home. 

Although he didn’t mean to, he found himself wandering back towards the pier. Racetrack wasn’t entirely sure what he was expecting. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to see Spot. Yet when the Brooklyn leader was not there, he felt an unfamiliar wave of disappointment.

Racetrack sighed, and turned around. It was getting dark now, and he wasn’t keen on remaining in Brooklyn past nightfall. As he wove his way through the streets, he felt an eerie presence in the air, as if someone was watching him. And although he maybe should have been, Racetrack was not at all surprised when Spot jumped out from around a corner.

They stared at each other for a minute.

“I’m just heading back to Manhattan,” Racetrack said. 

Spot stepped forward, and murmured in his ear, “No you ain’t. Come to dinner with me.”

Racetrack blinked, then nodded. He wasn’t even going to wonder where Spot planned on eating dinner. “Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the shorty. I'm not feeling well so I was about to take a nap when I realized that I needed to post today. I ended up writing this in about 15 minutes. Anyway. Leave me a comment, I love hearing from you guys, or come say hi on [tumblr!](http://kylescatliffe.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter 4

Four

This trend continued almost every day for weeks. Every morning Racetrack would go to Sheepshead to sell his papes, and every evening he would drop by the Brooklyn newsie lodging house. Spot always acted surprised to see him, but after a week or so Racetrack spotted him perched in his window on the top floor, looking down at the street. As soon as he saw Racetrack coming down the street, he would leap from the window and run downstairs, waiting for him by the door. Neither of them actually mentioned this.

It was an unspoken agreement between them that they would go out to dinner every evening. They never assured the each other that it would happen, but they never had to. They just knew. 

One day however, Spot didn’t move from his perch in the window. He was staring down dully at the crowds of people below. Racetrack frowned, and knocked on the door to the lodging house. Normally, he wouldn’t do this. Last time he had tried, the newsies had kicked him to the curb faster than you could say ‘Brooklyn’. But the boy who opened the door- Racetrack hadn’t seen him before- just nodded and let him in. 

“Top floor,” he muttered. Racetrack blinked and nodded, walking up the rickety staircase. He knew which room Spot was in at once. It was a small door at the end of the hallway. He paused outside it, and raised his knuckles to knock loudly, but before he could, there was a long sigh from inside.

“Come in, Racetrack.” Spot spoke softly. He stepped inside slowly, finding the other boy still curled up in the window.

“You’re late for dinner,” Racetrack said accusingly, for lack of anything else to say. He sighed. “Are you okay?” 

Spot didn’t turn around. “I’m fine.” 

Racetrack scoffed. “We’ve spent hours together every day for months. Don’t try to tell me you’re fine when obviously you’re not.” He almost said “You’re my best friend,” but he didn’t, because that wasn’t the way they worked. That wasn’t something you said. Spot Conlon didn’t have friends. But it was the only way Racetrack could describe it. 

Spot finally turned around, dangling his feet off the windowsill. “My folks died 10 years ago today,” he said matter-of-factly. 

Racetrack couldn’t help his reaction. “I thought you didn’t have folks!”

“Not anymore, I don’t,” Spot said. 

“...I’m sorry, Spot.”

“Don’t be.”

They were both quiet for a moment. Then Racetrack slowly walked forward and sat beside Spot in the windowsill. Neither said a word. They didn’t have to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow that got angsty, sorry. Come say hi on [tumblr](http://kylescatliffe.tumblr.com)!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I haven't updated!

Five

Their daily meals continued after that, as if nothing had happened. But something had happened, and they both knew it. Racetrack had seen a side of Spot he didn’t know existed. Hell, most newsies probably didn’t know it existed.

One day, Racetrack tried to bring it up. He had tried not to think about it, but his curiosity got the better of him. 

“How did your folks die?”

The question came out of nowhere, and seemed to take Spot by surprise. He was silent for a minute, and then answered shortly, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

But Racetrack wasn’t one to back down from a challenge. 

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“That’s none of your damn business!” Spot rounded on Racetrack angrily. A long time ago, that angry stare might’ve sent him running. But now, he leaned right up until they were none-to-nose.

“I think it is! It bothers you, Spot! It bothered you when I came by a few weeks ago, and it bothers you now. You’re not the same, and I want to know why. I want to know how to help you!”

“Why do you care so much?” Spot didn’t even sound angry anymore. He just looked exhausted.

“Because you’re my best friend, dumbass!”

Spot blinked, stunned into silence.

“I… am?” His voice was soft. 

“Of course! Jesus, Spot, what else would you call this?”

Spot was silent. 

“Come on, Conlon. Do you not have anything to say after that?”

“I guess… You… You’re…”

Racetrack stood up. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it. You’ll just ruin it.”

“Racetrack. Race. Don’t go. I’m-” Spot tried to follow him to the door, but Racetrack was already gone.


End file.
